


Tomahawk Jane - Night Hunt

by Apartment41



Series: Tomahawk Jane [1]
Category: Unspecified Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-06 17:54:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4231257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apartment41/pseuds/Apartment41
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jane was your average twenty-something.<br/>She went to a good college.  She had an okay job.  Sometimes she went rock climbing at the gym.</p><p>But with a recent reduction in the world's population, her life has changed somewhat.</p><p>Now she's "Jane, Queen of San Francisco, Mistress of Lombard Street, and Slayer of the Undead."<br/>She might change the title.  There's no one around to judge her either way.</p><p>She spends her days fortifying her apartment, and her nights on the prowl.<br/>Her mother always told her it wasn't safe for a woman to walk the streets alone at night.  Jane's not concerned.</p><p>She's got an M14 on her back, a .45 on her hip, and a tomahawk in her hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

On the whole, being eaten to death is a shit way to go.

To speak nothing of the fact that you’re dying, you’re dying slowly, and _you’re being eaten to death_ , there’s just something inherently dehumanizing about it. The food chain is supposed to go in only one direction: specifically, everything toward human mouths.

Part of what separates man from beast is that the human race has spent the last 125,000 years or so hunting, domesticating, and then slaughtering everything that tastes good to eat. We’ve humiliated everything else. We may not eat dogs (I’m an American, that statement applies to me, and therefore everyone within shouting range), but we can dress them up in suits and funny hats.

Humans are not supposed to be eaten. We’ve designed every aspect of our civilization to keep that from happening. Just think about it. What was our first invention? Whoever said fire needs to sit down, that was further down the road. I’m talking about the days when walking upright was still a novelty.

It was the rock. Or the club. Or some other blunt force object designed to beat whatever came calling in the night to death. After that, we’d eat it because, why not? It’s an animal, you killed it, why let it go to waste?

We invented the spear to make it easier to kill. We invented the bow and arrow to make it easier to kill. We invented the wall to separate us from what we wanted to kill and what wanted to kill us. We invented the gun, the farm, Animal Control, the knife and fork to make killing, controlling and consuming animals easier.

We’re the hunters. Not the hunted.

It’s rather upsetting when that balance is disturbed. And embarrassing.

Saint Peter wouldn’t be very impressed if, upon arrival to the Pearly Gates he asks, “How did you die, child,” and you say, “Eaten to death by house cat.” Sure, you might still get your wings, but honestly, do you really deserve them?

There’s some leniency though. It’s respectable to be eaten by, say, a bear. That’s got some street cred. Your standard Grizzly weighs between 300 and 800 pounds, and has four steak knives on each hand. That’s not a fight so much as an all-natural ass whooping. Grizzlies hardly ever eat the people they kill either; it’s just that when a human being is unfortunate enough to piss off something whose Latin name translates roughly to “Awesome Bear of the North,” you’re going to lose even if the bear is trying not to kill you.

What I can’t figure out is where zombies fall on the spectrum of “Embarrassing Things to be Eaten By.”

I mean sure, they’re dangerous, but you’ve still got a fighting chance. They’re not exactly grizzly bears. Or even black bears, the pushover of the bear world.

I should clarify however. “Zombies” used to mean the slow, shuffling abominations seen in Romero films. These were the guys who would only kill you if you were monumentally stupid. Like, ridiculously dumb. We’re talking Kardashian levels of vapid idiocy here.

I remember watching episodes of “The Walking Dead,” and thinking, “Oh no, the zombies are _shuffling towards you_! If only you had two _fully functioning feet and a semi-operative brain_!” There’s a reason they had to bring human enemies into that series, besides political commentary.

Traditional zombies are an inherently boring threat. If I’d had my tomahawk in that show, I would’ve cleaned out Atlanta by the second episode, killed Shane in the third, and moon walked my way out by the fourth. I’m not exaggerating. If I’d been there, that show would’ve lasted less than five episodes.  And would've been significantly better.

But _these_ guys… they’re a different story.

There’s no good word for them. “Infected” would probably be about the closest thing possible, I guess. But that’s only because I heard it in the movie “28 Days Later,” which even now I still like. Side note: very underrated movie. Scarecrow and Black Money Penny worked really well in it.

But for ease of use, it’s best to think of them as “zombies.” That’s what we’ve been calling them since “Night of the Living Dead,” and I don’t see any reason to change now.

But save for an insatiable thirst for human flesh and ashy white skin, they bear precisely zero resemblance to Romero Shufflers. First off, and most troublingly, these guys can run. Fast. A full tilt sprint clocks out at about 12 miles per hour. I’ve seen these guys easily go 25, which is only slightly slower than Usain freaking Bolt, the fastest man alive. Or… no he’s probably still alive. If nothing else, he can at least out run the living dead.

They’re also smart, to a limited extent. I wouldn’t say they plan ahead, and maybe anything I see as forethought is just an illusion, but twice now I’ve been ambushed. That required them to watch me, move to a new position (not necessarily pre-determined) and move in for the kill as a single unit.

Fortunately, they still don’t seem to understand that in a contest between human-skull versus Jeep, the giant piece of American steel is going to win every time. And I made sure to kill every last zombie in the area, just to make sure that nobody would take away any lessons from that fight.

Because I’m thorough like that.

They also seem to have a limited pack mentality, hence the ambush. I wouldn’t go so far as to say they’re coordinated, more like… have you ever watched a multiplayer video game? Picture 64 people split into two teams. No one’s talking to each other (I refuse to believe otherwise) yet somehow there’s still a cohesive structure.

One guy enters a room looking straight, and the two guys behind him are covering left and right. Somebody grabs the enemy flag, and everyone else moves to support him. A tank presses into enemy territory, and the choppers fly in to cover.

There wasn’t any communication. Teamwork just… happened.

I don’t like it.

 

I can hear them outside my window now, howling. There’s at least twenty of them, same as always. I sigh and lean up in my bed. It’ll be dark in a half hour, so I may as well get ready for the night’s hunt. I smile and look down at my tomahawk.

I’ve been sharpening it absentmindedly for a half hour now. It’s sharp enough to take a head off without even trying.

Tonight should be fun.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody ever thinks about water, least of all Jane.
> 
> It's usually pretty simple. Turn faucet, water comes out, you can't explain the rest.  
> Cheap access to water is the closest we get to magic and nobody ever thinks about what happens when it stops flowing.
> 
> But now Jane has a problem. She's almost out of water, and has to venture into the ruins of San Francisco to get more.
> 
> Which means the zombies of San Francisco also have a problem.

I slide out of bed, set my tomahawk on the nightstand and stretch. I can feel aching muscles in my back expand slowly, and practically hear my joints creak. Killing zombies is hard work.

I arch back as far as I can, and then forward, far enough to touch my toes. Muscles I didn’t know existed scream out in pain. I ignore them. They’ll have to pick up the slack if they don’t want to be eaten.

Finally, I finish, breathe deep and begin to mull over the plan for the night.

First priority is getting more water, something I never thought would be an issue. Once the apocalypse hit, there wasn’t a whole lot of time to prepare. Despite my “Ask Me About My Zombie Plan” shirt, I really hadn’t put a whole lot of thought into what would happen if the unthinkable actually went down.

Consequently, once the utilities failed, I was in some serious trouble. I had nothing in terms of water. Zero. The only thing in my fridge I had to drink was a half bottle of tequila, one bottle of whiskey (No! Not Fireball! …Okay, it’s Fireball) and a gallon of milk that was rapidly approaching room temperature. My neighbors were slightly better off. After pilfering my entire apartment complex, I came up with a total of six gallons of water, ten gallons of sports drinks, and two gallons of odds and ends.

That sounds like a lot. Here’s the problem. The average human needs about three liters of water per day to survive. Most of us need less than that because we spend our time in air-conditioned environments and work in offices. There’s no need to physically exert ourselves outside of the half hour we spend exercising (if that).

I’m not in that situation anymore.

First off, it’s California, it’s summer, it’s hot, and the air conditioning isn’t working. I’m dressed in a shirt and panties (and yeah, I look fantastic) and I’m still sweating like a pig (a _sexy_ pig).

More importantly, zombie killing is demanding work. Shooting, slashing, or clubbing the undead requires a lot of effort, which requires me to drink lots of water. I easily go through two liters after a good fight.

Some people may think that eighteen gallons would be enough to support this lifestyle for months. Those people are _stupid_ , and should’ve learned how to convert liters to gallons.

Wait, that’s harsh. I take it back. The _United States customary unit system_ is stupid. If we used the metric system, my predicament would be a lot easier to understand.

Each gallon contains three liters of water, each liter being about one standard Nalgene bottle. Remember when I said the human body needs three liters per day at best? That means I’m consuming one gallon per day, if not more. So those eighteen gallons last me less than eighteen days.

That’s not good enough. Especially since I only have about four gallons left.

So that’s the plan for tonight. Drive to the Walgreens on Columbus Avenue and pilfer everything hydrating.

Easier said than done, of course.

I begin to dress for the night. My dark green Arborwear jeans are draped over my desk chair. I pull them on, savoring the thick fabric. They’re billed as “tree climbing pants,” which I didn’t even know was a thing. They’re triple reinforced, especially at the crotch. They’re heavy, but utterly bulletproof. They also fit me pretty well, and make my curves look great.

Not that there’s anyone around to notice me.

I sigh. Sometimes I wish there was. The apocalypse can get lonely, and although I’ve got enough to worry about, it would be nice to have some big strapping man around to bend me over a table and fuck my problems away.

Or a woman. I’m not picky.

After the pants come my boots. Calf high lace-ups made of pure leather, and two thick buckles at the top. The height and leather is important. Tennis shoes would have given me much more speed and maneuverability, but would have done exactly zilch to protect my legs. If I ever get zombie gang banged, I don’t want to have to worry about zack rolling up my pant legs and clamping his jaws around my calves.

I pull the boots over my jeans, lace them up tight, and smile. I feel like Lara Croft in these things.

I stand in front of the mirror as I peel off my sweat soaked shirt, and take a moment to scan myself. It’s vain, I know, but screw it. There’s no one around to judge me, and if Lindy West is still alive, I doubt she has time to tell me how taking pride in my body and preening myself in front of a mirror are two different things.

But there’s still a practical purpose. I’m ingesting way fewer calories than I did before the apocalypse hit. That means two things: one, I’m losing a ton of weight, and can finally fit into my bikini from college. Also, _holy shit I’m losing a ton of weight._

Every time you exercise, your body takes damage. Usually nothing more than micro-tears to your muscles, these injuries are repaired by the next day. But that’s only if your body is in a position to repair them. That means plenty of water, plenty of food, and plenty of sleep. I’ve got exactly none of those things. My body is slowly breaking down, and I won’t be able to stop it until I get the food, water and sleep I need to guarantee a healthy lifestyle.

My disappearing belly fat means that my body is literally eating itself in an attempt to prioritize my vital organs and more importantly my muscles, which it’s learned I need on account of the nightly murder sprees. So although my six-pack is more noticeable than ever, I’m still dying. And suddenly more sympathetic towards supermodels.

  
Fortunately, I still can’t count my ribs, which I guess is a good sign.

I pull on a sports bra and my favorite blue tank top. Then comes the brown leather jacket. It’s heavy, hot, and slows me down in a fight. But it’s bite resistant, and that’s what counts. I’m trading speed for armor. It’s a gamble, and one I only have to lose once before I die.

I scowl. I never thought that would be a trade off I’d be forced to make.

Finally comes my weaponry.

I pull on my belt, a heavy arrangement of nylon and canvas straps. I clip the system at my waste, then at both of my thighs. My pistol, a powerful H&K USP .45 goes in the holster on my right thigh. I put four magazines, each one holding twelve hollow-point rounds, into the holster on my left. I cinch the straps tight, and check that both the pistol and magazine are secure. This keeps them not only from falling out, but from rattling around, which would make noise.

I slide my tomahawk into its plastic holster, which I’ve clipped just above my right butt cheek. This keeps it out of the way of my pistol, but still within easy reach. I pull it out briefly and take a few test swings. It sails through the air with grace.

I grin. I can feel it cut into a zombie’s flesh, or crack its way through a skull.

I slide it back into the holster and walk out of my room.

My M14 battle rifle is on the kitchen table, something my mother probably would’ve been scandalized by.

 _“Jane,”_ I hear her. _“No put gun on table!”_ I laugh.

I pick up the rifle and quickly run a hand up and down the wooden frame. It’s an older weapon, developed back in the fifties. It fires heavy hitting 7.62 NATO rounds, and kicks like a mule. But it hasn’t jammed on me yet, and I’ve got more than a thousand rounds of ammo, thanks to an unfortunate Marine and his belt fed 240 Bravo machine gun. I almost felt bad pulling the ammo off the guy’s corpse. But it’s not like he’s gonna need it.

I slap in a 20 round magazine and pull the bolt back, then let it slap forward with a metallic _clack!_ Electricity shoots through my veins. I love my tomahawk, and would never, ever leave it, but my M14 is like the world’s best cheating hookup. You may not feel for it like you do your partner, but it’s still so _irresistible._ There’s just something sexy about picking it up, aiming down the sights, and gently squeezing the trigger.

Let’s face it, guns are fun. They’re heavy, loud, and put holes in things.

I smile as I pick up the stacks of ten M14 magazines and slip them into the pouches at the back of my belt.

I grab my empty duffel bag, do one last gear check, and walk out the door, a grin on my face, and my heart thumping in my chest.

It’s going to be a _very_ fun night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane takes a walk down memory lane.

I head for the stairs, M14 in my hands, tomahawk lightly banging against my hip. I’m on the fifth and top floor of my apartment complex, which is both a blessing and a curse. It offers me a great vantage point, and a good sense of security. However, climbing up a ladder and three flights of stairs gets old really quickly. I’ve considered moving to the second floor, but dismissed the idea pretty quickly.

I like my room. I’m not moving. Not even for a zombie apocalypse.

I walk down three flights of stairs before arriving at the bottom. We destroyed the last flight on the third day, with sledges, picks, and one jackhammer stolen from a nearby construction sight. It was quick work. Later we barricaded the landing with rubble, and laid boards over the gap, effectively sealing off the first floor and denying the zombies access to the rest of the complex. We felt safe for a time, until we realized that zack knew how to climb up the fire escape. That incursion gutted the complex.

I was the only one who walked away.

 

I glance shamefully towards the floor as I head for the fire escape.

That was a rough time. Didn’t last very long, maybe a half hour at the most.

I was sitting in my room, trying to reach my parents. They were back home in Alaska, and safe, I hoped. We stopped talking a while ago.

More than a while, I guess. A long while.

But an emergency changes things. As soon as I saw what was happening, I tried calling them.

No answer.

I wrote them emails.

No answer.

Social media.

No answer.

I tried not to panic. I had my own problems to worry about. The city was tearing itself apart. We couldn’t evacuate; the roads were too clogged with abandoned cars, and commercial air traffic had been grounded, part of a quarantine effort. We were hoping for rescue from Camp Pendleton and the entire First Marine Division, but in the back of our minds we knew that was never going to happen.

When the screaming started, I was rationalizing why my parents weren’t answering me. _Maybe Dad took Mom on a camping trip,_ I thought. _Yeah, that’s probably it. They’re out in a tent somewhere, sitting by the fire. Kodiak is with them. Big ol’ Alaskan malamute, big ol’ fuzzball, he’ll keep them safe._ I smiled.

_They’re fine. Don’t worry about them._

_…Besides, they’re not worrying about you._

That’s when I started to hate them again.

Something deep inside my chest knotted, with burning tendrils of venom creeping into every part of my body. _They abandoned you. They despise you!_ My stomach wound itself into knots, and tears began to well at my eyes. _Remember what they said? Remember what they called you?_

_They’re not camping! They’re at home, safe, waiting to hear that their baby girl’s been eaten alive!_

_They want you dead, Jane! DEAD!_

I didn’t stop crying until zack knocked on my door.

My tomahawk work that day was… inefficient. The anger was still boiling inside me, and only got worse every time I saw one of my neighbors die.  
No, that’s too polite. They didn’t die. They were torn limb from limb, the flesh ripped from their bones, and terror etched into their faces. Each one wore a death mask of absolute horror. And I remember each one of them.

I didn’t even know any of them. But they were human, and had tried to help me. We’d developed a new sense of community in the wake of the apocalypse. And it was being torn apart right before my eyes.

I remember one zombie, a businessman in his previous life. He wore a dark black suit, and a white shirt stained redder than his tie. He came at me screaming, his jaw locked in a snarl, and his hands out in front of him, reaching for me.

I didn’t even blink. My first uppercut carved through his belly, and cracked open his sternum from the inside out. His guts spilled out onto the cheap tile floor. He kept coming after me, tripping on his own intestines. I dodged to the side, grabbed hold of his wrist, then took his arm off at the elbow.  
Hot tears streamed down my eyes, but I wasn’t crying. I was screaming.

He came at me one last time, and I tore into the fucker like a banshee. With one last swipe of my tomahawk, I took the top of his skull clean off. He dropped to the ground like a lead weight, and I was left standing there.

I smile. That must’ve been a sight. Twenty three year old Jane, one hundred thirty pounds soaking wet, covered head to toe in zombie blood, with a wicked grin on her face, and a gore soaked tomahawk in her hands.

 _Yeah,_ I think. _That must’ve been a fucking sight._

  
By the time we’d cleared out the apartment complex and pulled up the fire escape ladder, I was the only one left. Or… technically the only one left. There were still two others, both of them lost causes.

One was a woman. She’d had her jugular punctured in the fighting, and had just enough consciousness left to stare into my eyes, her mouth moving without making any noises. I closed her eyes for her, and left bloody marks on her lids.

The other was a man. I don’t know his name, and I’m glad for it, too. He was maybe thirty, handsome, with curly black hair, and a nice beard. He’d been bitten. We didn’t know much about the zombies, but we were pretty certain of a few things.  
He asked me to kill him. When I said no, he begged me.

I told him to jump out the window. I gave him a knife, and told him to slit his throat. He didn’t want to. He’d rather I become a murderer than he commit suicide.  
Selfish fucker. When he started crying, I changed my mind.

Cleanest hit of the day. One strike, right through the skull.

I stop in the middle of the hallway, thinking back. I remember how comfortable I was killing the man. How easy it was to slice my way through the halls of the complex, zombies falling to my tomahawk left and right. I cut down all those zombies, all those people, with a grin on my face.

I gasp, the air chilling as it shoots down my throat.

 _Holy shit that’s morbid,_ I think.

I shudder and keep walking.

When you live on your own, there’s really no one to bounce your feelings off of. Sure, you can chat with your co-workers or shout at the barista at Starbucks, but there’s really nobody to connect with. I can’t cry into anyone’s shoulder, or throw on my pajamas and eat ice cream with one of my girlfriends (that’s what other women do, right? Or is that just something from “Sex and the City?”). It’s just me here.

I imagine everything’s getting bottled up. I’ll have to find a safe release for it at some point. Tears, I guess. Screaming, maybe.

Masturbation?

_Yeah, that could work._

I shrug. There’s no point in thinking about everyone else now. They’re dead. And it’s not like I’ll ever be able to forget them.  
Their blood’s covering the walls. Their corpses would still be stinking up the place too if I hadn’t shoved them out the window and onto the street.  
I scowl at the blood stains as I walk. That had been a rough day.

But it was necessary. I’m not about to let zack kill me, and I’m certainly not about to let a microbe do the job. Corpse disposal is sanitation 101, right next to “Don’t eat where you shit” and “Cover your damn mouth!”

I’d taken precautions, as best I could. I found some old painters scrubs from the fourth floor, where they were doing renovations, and an old mask too. Not exactly Bio Hazard Safety Level 4, but it kept the corpse particles off me.

 

To get to the fire escape, I have to walk through someone’s apartment. I ignore the blood on the floor and walls as best I can.

I open the window leading to the fire escape and stick my head out. Night has fallen, and the zombies have scattered. I’m not sure where they go, yet. I try not to venture outside the apartment unless I absolutely have to. I’ll hunt them, one day. Maybe. When I get a suit of powered armor and an automatic shotgun that shoots chainsaws instead of bullets.

But zack’s gone now, which is the important part.

I step onto the fire escape landing, and take a deep breath. The air feels cool, and there’s a light breeze on the wind.

A good omen.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane buckles up, and heads out.

I lower the fire escape ladder, shuddering as the groan of creaking steel shatters the dark, ringing loud and true like a midnight dinner bell.  Once the ladder reaches bottom, I shoulder my M14, flick the safety off, and aim down the length of the alley. There’s still just enough light to shoot, and I plan to put a bullet into anything that moves.

Then I wait, for nearly fifteen minutes. 

I pan the rifle up and down the alley, crouching, standing, lying prone. My breathing is shallow. I inhale deep, exhale slowly, and hold, my body reaching its natural resting state.  It’s here that my M14 is most steady, and my shots would fly most true.  It’s sniper breathing, a technique perfected by men trained to take lives without ever being seen or heard.

I wait.  Until the air is still, and I’m certain the danger has passed.

Nothing comes, which is not reassuring to me.

I have _no idea_ what zombies do at night. All I know is, once the sun drops, they’re gone.  Or more precisely, no longer standing directly in front of my apartment.  Zack could’ve been right around the corner and I’d be none the wiser. This is the first time I’ll have ventured outside at night.  It’s an experiment.  And a dangerous one.

I shrug slightly as I begin to climb down the ladder.

I’ve prepared for this night for some time.  There’s a flashlight in the pocket of my jacket, and one on the railing of my H&K.  …And that’s really all the preparing I’ve done.  I’m sure a Marine would shake their head and tell me about human reaction times being terrible at night, or night vision or some other bullshit, but screw’em. I don’t need the opinion of a trained professional right now.  I can feel insecure all on my own.

Besides, I’m just driving to Walgreens.  What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened at a Walgreens?

I finally reach the bottom of the ladder, which thankfully extends to just a foot off the pavement, dismount, and slide the ladder back up, careful to ensure that the rope tied to its end is hidden and secured so I can pull the ladder back down when ready.

Once I know the ladder is stowed, I pull my M14 to my shoulder, and crouch, ready to shoot.  I scan the roofs, the windows, behind every garbage can and dumpster, and above all, the shadows. My heart is beating like a war drum, but my trigger finger is steady.  My eyes and ears slowly acclimate to the still air and the dark, parsing out anything that could smell trouble. 

It’s in this moment that calm is imperative.  A panicking mind will create its own phantoms.  Leaves scraping against the ground becomes the soft sounds of zack moving into ambush position.  The moon’s reflection in broken glass becomes zack’s eyes, watching, waiting for a moment of weakness.

But zack doesn’t come.  There are no foot falls.  There are no ravenous snarls.

I smile, and breathe deep.  My mind relaxes, and my heart slows.  I giggle.

_Yeah, Jane.  Ice cold, that’s what you are._

Satisfied that I’ll be safe for the next sixty seconds, I lower the rifle and begin to walk down the alley, towards my Jeep, Ruby.

I smile.  She’s my precious baby. A two-door Jeep Wrangler, jet black, with a full lift kit, and massive all terrain wheels that give her three feet of clearance.  She’s got a tow cable at the front, a headlight rack on the top, and extra fuel mounts in the back. I love her.

I used to drive Ruby all over Alaska.  Through the hills, the mountains, the snow, through rivers, swamps, up, in and out, this baby has seen it all.  During the summer I would take the doors off and roll the ceiling back, then cruise through the off road trails around Denali National Park, or through the ice fields of Glacier Bay, the stereo turned way up, rock and roll blasting out for all the world to enjoy.

During the winter, I’d bolt on the snow tires, and take Kodiak up into Grizzly country.  We’d camp out for days, without a care in the world.  I’d make s’mores in the fire, and laugh when Kodiak would try to get hot marshmallow goo out of his fur.

I sigh.  _I miss that dog._

His tongue would stretch near to the back of his head trying to get every last ounce of marshmallow. I laugh, thinking back to him. He was a good dog, and maybe the only part of home I really miss. 

I know he misses me too.

He tackled me both times I was home since leaving for college.

I walk up to Ruby, and run a hand along her steel body, my fingers tracing the dints made by zombies. _Battle scars._ I pat them respectfully, and pull open the door.  I put my M14 on “safe”, toss it and my duffel bag it into the passenger seat, grab the nylon handhold attached to the doorframe, and hoist myself inside. I slam the door shut behind me, and lock it.

Then with a twist of the key, a switch of the lights, and a press on the gas, I’m off, riding high into post-apocalyptic San Francisco.

           

As I turn onto Lombard Street, the night seems to press inward. I can feel myself ducking lower, hiding behind the steering wheel.  Ruby’s doors are thin, and the roof’s little more than a piece of nylon. A determined zombie could claw its way inside with ease. 

Part of me is tempted to throw on a fight song.  Hearing Cassie Lee Williams belt out “This Will be the Day We’ve Waited For” or Aimee Blackshleger’s “DOA” would make me feel ten feet tall. I grin as I reach for my iPod.

My brain practically shits itself before I can press “play.”

Music’s a great idea when I’m back at my apartment and dancing with no pants and a mug full of whiskey, but I need all my focus on the here and now. I sigh, and shamefully slink my hand back to the steering wheel.

 

San Francisco passes by, the lights from my Jeep cutting a burning swath of light in the darkness.  There’s little evidence to make someone believe the city’s been destroyed. The buildings are still standing. The cars are still parked. Everything’s still in order.

You have to look closer.  You have to see the corpses lying on the sidewalk, where terrified people were caught out in the open, and eviscerated.  I’ve seen it happen. They run out of their apartments, their fortress home compromised.  Maybe they run for their car, maybe they make it.  Most don’t.  The dead catch up to them quickly, but tear them apart slowly.

Others took the easy way out.  Despair is an easy thing to find at the end of the world.  And it’s a short fall from the top of a building to the pavement below.

I press harder on the gas and speed towards the Walgreens.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane enters the Walgreens, and makes contact with the enemy.

It’s a short drive to Walgreens, even when I drive at a sluggish twenty MPH.

Because I’ll be damned if I get killed in a high speed collision with a stationary object! That’s an embarrassing way to die in the zombie apocalypse!

The Walgreens looms in the distance. My headlights pierce through the darkness, lighting up the store like it was high noon. I pass it by, and circle the block, letting nothing escape my notice. I scan rooftops, alleyways, behind every abandoned car, inside every window, parsing out every last shape and shadow from the world around me.

I am in a hostile place.

A chill settles onto my shoulders. I can feel adrenaline pump through my veins, and my breathing become shallow. I lift a hand off the steering wheel, and feel it vibrate with electricity.

I am alone.

Here I drive, through what was one of America’s greatest cities. A hub of people from all across the globe, living and working together in harmony. A cultural mecca where everyone was accepted, where peace and prosperity was taken for granted, and everyone felt secure in the knowledge that if they cried out in pain, people would come running to their side.

This city was a microcosm of the United States of America, the most powerful nation on Earth. Its greatness was beyond dispute.

I smirk. Those days are gone. San Francisco was laid low by a virus, an unfeeling, unthinking strand of proteins. The good people are gone, and I may as well be on the far side of the Moon for all the help I can expect.

I circle the block twice more, hoping to draw out any threats, and get a good feel for the area. If I’m attacked and pursued, it’s paramount that I have an escape plan ready.

After the third circuit, I feel ready. I steer Ruby to the Walgreen’s entrance, and switch off the engine, kill the lights, and breathe easy. I can feel the cool night air, and know that all around me is darkness.

Part of me wants to laugh. Just a day before the outbreak, everything was so normal. I worked at a graphic design studio, exercised, went to bars, had friends, had lovers, hopes and dreams. I was one person in a city of eight hundred thirty seven thousand.

A face in the crowd.

I smile, grab my M14 and duffel bag, open the door, and head for the store entrance.

My heart is hammering, and my breathing is quick and shallow, but my trigger finger is steady. I move in a half crouch, rolling my feet to make less noise, and moving swiftly over the pavement.

The zombie horde hit us in the night, when most of the shops were closed. Thankfully, this Walgreens was open 24 hours. I tear open the door, leap inside, M14 raised, safety off, and my finger on the trigger. I drop into a crouch the second the door closes behind me, my breath catching in my throat as I prepare for a fight.

And I wait.

The air is still. But there’s a pungent odor inside. It stings my nose, and curdles my brain. Something primitive inside me is terrified. Some part of me that hasn’t spoken since mankind crawled its way out of East Africa. And it is scared. It smells the rotting flesh. The piss that ran in a moment of terror. The shit that was released after death. The writhing maggots. The stewing organs.

It knows these smells. Its known them for hundreds of thousand of years.

Nothing moves. Nothing stirs.

I stand, M14 still raised and ready. The deep part of me wants to run back to my Jeep, and curl up under my bed. But something else tells me to put one foot in front of the other, and head for the back of the store, where the drinks are.

_You’re no coward, Jane Lee. You are made of tougher stuff._

As I move through the store, and my eyes and ears become accustomed to the dark, signs of fighting leap out at me clear as day. The crumpled figure that lies fetal on the ground. The sticky sound my boots make as they tramp through a pool of blood.

I try to ignore all of this, and keep my mind focused on the objective.

I arrive at the beverage aisle less than thirty seconds after entering the store, and work quickly. I set my M14 on the ground, leaving it ready for quick access. Then I fling open one door and begin to toss water bottles into my open duffel bag. My hands move at a blur, and my heart pounds inside my chest. My back is turned to the store, and I can practically feel dead hands claw around my neck.

Suddenly, I stop.

The sound of footfalls reaches my ears, sending my stomach into a loop, and a new wave of adrenaline coursing through my veins. I pick up my M14, and turn.

There, standing near the entrance of the Walgreens is a zombie. His dead eyes scan me up and down, his head tilted at a sickening angle. His arms are at his side, fingers balled into fists. His jaw is cocked, and I can see jagged teeth, sharpened on the bones of the slain.

I gasp. I saw this zombie when I walked inside. He was curled up at the counter. I though he was dead.

I was wrong.

But only technically.

“Um,” I say into the dark.

The zombie shrieks, and charges. He’s running at inhuman speeds, propelled by an insatiable thirst for human flesh. Dead limbs pump like machines, and dead arms swing with uncontrollable determination. His eyes are wide, his jaw is cocked, and a terrible scream is rolling out of his throat like the whipping wind of a tornado.  
I don’t even flinch.

The M14 bucks in my arms, and a single 7.62 round rips the darkness open. The bullet enters just below the zombie’s sternum, the heavy round tearing and ripping flesh into little more than jelly, and a sad imitation of human anatomy. The zombie stumbles, but keeps running. He’s less than six feet away now, a mocking grin on his face.

_He thinks he’s gonna win…_

_Fucker!_

My eyes narrow, and with a squeeze of my finger, I sound the zombie’s death knell. The bullet rips through his jaw, and explodes out the back of his skull. Bits of brain matter and fluid splatter onto the aisle and floor. All life is ejected from the living corpse, who falls right at my feet, his body giving one last death spasm as the rest of his nervous system catches up to the fact that he’s very, very dead.

I smirk.

_One dead zombie._

I turn around and hastily shove water bottles into my duffel bag. My hands work blindingly fast. I’m breathing quicker now, and my heart is pounding inside my chest. _It’s just one zombie, Jane_ , I think.

_Nothing new, same as every day, who cares? Two shots, a double tap, pretty common. You’ve got plenty of ammo, your tomahawk, and Ruby’s just outside. Who gives a shit? No worries. Slow down and take your time._

_But I thought it was dead! And there are other “corpses” in this building!_

Finished loading the water, I zip up the bag and prepare to hoist it over my shoulder when my eyes catches movement. I look up, and scream.

“Holy fuck!”

There, at the far end of the aisle, are five zombies, their heads just poking out from behind the shelf displays. Their beady eyes watch me closely, studying me. My scream sends them ducking behind the aisle, the sounds of their feet hitting the floor sends a shiver up my spine.

I shoulder the duffel bag and squeeze tighter on my M14, holding the rifle’s stock between by ribs and my arm, readying it for a close quarters fight.

I can hear them moving. I don’t know how many there are. Five, ten, maybe even twenty. But they’re all around me, waiting for a moment to strike. A thin note of terror snakes its way through my body, tightening my muscles, and pouring fire into my veins. I look down at my M14, scowling.

_I love you, girl... But I really wish you were full-auto._

As I make my way down the aisle, I suddenly realize that bringing the duffel bag instead of something like my North Face backpack was a huge mistake. The single strap is cutting into my shoulder, and the ungainly shape is making moving difficult. If the zombies come for me, and they will definitely come, I’ll be a sitting duck. I maneuver the bag to a more comfortable position, and strain my ears.

They’re getting closer.

_SHIT!_

Part of me wants to ditch the duffel bag and make a break for Ruby. But that would do me no good. I’d just wind up back at my apartment, with barely any water. I’d have to return eventually, but only after my mind has had time to invent all new horrors.

A wicked grin creeps onto my lips.

_Today’s the day, fuckers._

The footfalls come slower now, but are still disturbingly close. My head’s on a swivel, looking for any sign of movement. I glance down the aisle, towards the exit. A shadow passes by, quick as a wolf closing in on its prey. Two more follow just behind it. My eyes narrow, and an electricity shoots through my veins.

I slide the duffel bag to the ground, and breathe easy. I unbuckle my H&K and tomahawk, leaving them ready for quick access.

The footfalls have stopped now.

I think of DOA. My heart starts beating in tune with the baseline.

A scream erupts from behind me. I spin around, the M14 swinging into position, my finger on the trigger, and 18 rounds ready to go.

There’s four of them, charging down the aisle at full tilt. I smile, the song lyrics filling my mind.

_Keep your weapons aimed!_

I bring the M14 to my shoulder, and look through the scope. I put the red dot sight over the nearest zombie’s chest, and squeeze.

_Here comes the chilling faces!_

The round tears through his sternum, the bullet tumbling end over end on its horrific path through his heart and spine, before exploding out the back in a wash of blood.  
I set the red dot over the next zombie, and squeeze again.

_Pushing down your fear! Jumping on the necks of monsters!_

The M14 bucks, this round cleaving through zombies head at over eight hundred meters per second. His body goes limp in an instant, but I don’t watch him fall. Already, I’ve sighted on another zombie, this one a woman, her clothes ripped to shreds, her hair swinging back and forth.

I put the red dot right between her eyes.

_You can’t hide yourself!_

She goes down in a tangle of limbs, and I’m on to the next one!

_You can’t run!_

The final zombie gets within arms reach before my bullet rips through his chest. I step aside as he crashes to the ground.

Footfalls erupt around me again. I smirk.

My M14 still holds fourteen shots, easily enough to deal with most problems. If that fails, I’ve got twelve rounds in my H&K. If that fails, there’s always my tomahawk.

_And if that fails, it’s down to fists._

I smile as I picture gouging a zombie’s eye out with my thumb.

“Alright you ugly sons of bitches!” I scream into the dark. “Is that the best you’ve got?”

Something else stirs. I can hear more footfalls now. There’s a beast around me. And it’s ready to strike.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane faces the next wave, focused and ready.
> 
> But her past still haunts her, and her enemy is relentless.

The footfalls stop.

There’s a stillness to the air.

I can hear the rustling of the leaves outside. I can hear my heart pounding in my chest. I can hear my breath flow through my throat; rough, ragged, and shallow. I can feel the hard wood of my M14, and the cold steel of the trigger. The gunmetal grey slide and action catches the moonlight coming in through the windows, giving off a ghostly shine in the darkness.

I steady myself.

Zombies aren’t my enemy. They’re the walking dead. Little more than wild corpses, their brains hollowed out by a virus. They’re animated by nothing more than a DNA chain coated in a protein shell.

They are not the enemy.

My mind is the enemy.

A tingle shoots through my fingers. A light electricity that quickens my pulse. I feel fear. But one I’ve known for a long time. In the tundra of Alaska, deep inside the wilderness, I knew this fear very well. When the night settled in, and the fire grew low, the heat escaped from my body in tremendous waves. I would shiver, and begin to wonder.

_I am all alone. I have isolated myself. Gone deep into the unknown by choice._

_No one knows where I am. Help will come too late._

_Will I let Mother Nature kill me? Will I die because an unthinking, unfeeling force snuffed out my life?_

Something moves behind me. I turn just in time to see a troop of zombies clamber over the aisle wall.

My heart hammers faster at the sounds of their howls. Their mouths are wide, and their teeth are shining in the moonlight. There’s five of them. Large, muscular, and angry. They’re driven by a deep anger that goes beyond human emotion. It’s a deep hatred. Machine like.  
They land in a tangle of limbs, and charge.

I raise my M14, and shoot.

The rifle bucks in my hands, but the bullets fly true. The massive 7.62 rounds tear through the air like freight trains, slamming into the bouncing chests in front of me, ripping through cloth and skin and flesh and bone and organ and repeating the terrible process as they exit.

I hit the first zombie square in the chest, but he keeps coming, all pain blocked out of his mind. I grimace, and squeeze the trigger again. I pump five bullets into his chest before he dies a gruesome death.

Blood rockets through my veins, and my vision narrows. All I can see are teeth, jagged, blood soaked teeth, and the terrible bodies they’re inside. I sight onto the next zombie, and squeeze.

She dies less than a meter away, her brain matter sprayed all over the back wall. But when I go to kill the third zombie, he wraps his hands around my rifle and tears it away without a second thought.

I stare at him in horror. He’s taller than me, with bulging muscles and greying skin. Blood pours from his mouth, and the odor of rotting flesh and death is so clear I almost vomit. His eyes stare into mine with such malice, and for the second time in my life, I see what true hatred looks like.

I scream.

He wraps his hands around me, and opens his jaws wide.

_He’s going to kill me! He’s going to eat me and mangle me and leave me bleeding and dying on the floor!_

_I’m going to die!_

_I’M GOING TO DIE!_

Suddenly I’m transported back to my dorm room in Alaska. It’s Freshman year, and I’ve had too much to drink. A football player takes me back to his room. He’s twice my size, and throws me down on his bed. I struggle, but he’s big, and determined. He tries to roll me onto my stomach, but I’m fighting with everything I have. I look into his eyes, and see something I’ll never forget.

Hatred. A loathing that goes deep into his soul.

In that instant, part of me died.

But something else came to life. A fresh anger that boils inside me now.

I stare into the zombie’s eyes, a scowl growing on my face.

My hand darts towards my H&K. I pull the pistol out of its holster and press the muzzle against the zombie’s ribs. He looks at me, and for a moment, I think he understands what’s about to happen.

“Do you know who I am you _sonuva bitch_?” I scream at him.

I squeeze the trigger. A massive .45 caliber round enters his ribcage just above his waist, and exits just behind his right shoulder.

I squeeze the trigger three more times, the pistol bucking in my hand with demented fury as white hot lead rips into the zombie’s torso. The .45 rounds are mean.

They’re hollow points. They enter into the bastard a half inch in diameter, and leave twice the size.

His organs turned to paste, the zombie loosens his grip, and slides to the ground. I smile.

“I’m Jane motherfuckin’ Lee.”

The other two zombies howl in anger. I smirk, and focus on them now. I bring the .45 to bear, and aim down the glow-in-the-dark sights. I put four rounds into the one on the left, squinting at the enormous muzzle flash, then put four rounds into the one on the right.

The .45’s slide locks back, the pistol now empty. I eject the magazine, and slam in a new one, savoring the clack as I hit the catch release, and the slide rocks back into place.

There are still footfalls around me. I reach behind my back with my left hand, and pull out my tomahawk. The rubber grip feels good in my hand, and the weight of the blade feels powerful. The silver tip winks in the moonlight, and the razor thin edge seems to slice the night in half.

My mind returns to the dorm room, and I hear laughter. Satisfied, dangerous, and cold. My laughter. The football player is whimpering in the corner, clutching his broken penis.

He looks at me, his fat mouth blubbering, his world suddenly shattered. I’ve robbed him of something precious. Stolen a symbol of who he is. Given him something to remember.

I smile. It was a good night.

A scream knocks me back into the present. This one is different. Guttural and harsh, but infinitely confident, and proud. This scream has seen what I’ve done, and it’s pissed.

Zombies rush at me from both ends of the aisle. Eight of them, larger and more terrifying than that least two groups. These are the hunters, I realize. Sent to kill me when the others failed.

I pause for a moment, analyzing. I’m surrounded, outnumbered, and in a horrible position.

I’ll have to fight my way out.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane fights the last of the zombies with a smile on her face, laughing all the while.

I begin with the zombies to my rear. I bring the .45 to bear, and aim.

Part of me remembers the first time I shot a gun. It was back home, I was a little girl then, barely over ten years old. Uncle Daisuke was with me. He wasn’t like my parents. He’d been an American for decades, and knew how to hold a weapon. My father had protested, saying that nothing good could come from a woman who knew how to shoot. My uncle had nodded his head, patted his brother on the back, and took me out to the range.

I could smell the gun oil in the bag as we drove down the road in his beat up Ford truck. It smelled sweet, intoxicating. It had leaked onto the bag, soaking the canvas, staining it a filthy brown.

When we got to the range, my uncle taught me to shoot. He’d bought a tiny Ruger .22, cut to size for my tiny frame. The first thing he taught me was weapons safety.

“Jane,” he said softly, the simple accent of a man who works with his hands rolling gently out of his mouth, “Never, ever, point a gun towards another person.”

I had smiled then, and nodded my head.

He put the butt of the rifle to my shoulder, and guided my eye behind the scope. He’d set up a target, a bright orange clay pigeon, a disk. He taught me to breathe, and aim, and fire.

The sharp _crack!_ of the .22 had filled my ears, but what I remember most is the smell. Used gunpowder smells sharp. It stings the nostrils. But there’s a sweetness to it as well, the gentle scent of cordite that binds to everything. It got in my hair, my clothes, my very skin. Maybe it was my imagination, but I could smell it on myself days later.

I’d smell it when I thought of the feeling of the rifling recoiling against my shoulder, the cold steel of the bolt, the steam rising off the barrel.

After that first shot, I looked down range, and saw that the clay pigeon was gone.

I smile now.

_Thanks, Uncle Daisuke._

The pistol bucks twelve times, three shots to a chest. Gore and blood splatter onto the ground behind the zombies, staining the carpet a deep red that shines black in the pale moonlight.

The .45’s slide locks back, and I can see straight down to the magazine.

Empty.

I toss the pistol to the side, switch my tomahawk from my left hand to my right, turn, and scream.

The zombies are right on top of me. The point man, a brutish figure, with glassy eyes and a massive jaw, muscles like hydraulic pistons is barreling towards me. His legs and arms are pumping, his chest is heaving back and forth, lungs fighting to get him the air he needs to power the muscles to close the gap to tear me limb from limb.

My scream turns to a battle cry. In the blink of an eye, I’ve swung the tomahawk to my side, my knees bending, my back arching. The zombie is within arms reach now, so close I can smell him.

His rotting stench. His festering wounds. The flesh of slain humans rolling from his mouth.

My tomahawk catches him right under the jaw.

The blade is sharp, and barely pauses as I carve my way through his neck. Flesh and tendon are cut smooth as butter, blood gushing over my hand and arm, splattering onto my clothes in a torrent.

I can feel bone, and hear the light snap! as my steel cut its way through the zombie’s spine. The steel barely even notices. My arms glides through the swing, and within a second, the zombie’s head is sailing through the air. Zack’s limp body crumples to the floor, his head landing nearby with a sickening splat.

I smirk.

_One down._

The next zombie, a woman, barrels into me with hurricane force. She slams me into the ground, and props herself over me, screaming into my face. Dead skin hangs off her nose, dangling in front of me. It’s paper thin, and rotting.

She opens her mouth wide, and tries to eat my face off. I swing to the side at the last second, her teeth narrowly missing my ears. She snaps back, and takes her hands off my wrists. She balls her hands into a fist, and strikes my skull like it’s a drum.

Stars burst into my vision, and I’m keenly aware that the other zombies are standing around me, waiting, ready to pounce.

_How polite of them._

Just as the zombie prepares crack my skull wide open, I swing my tomahawk up, and cleave her left arm off, snapping the limb free from just below the shoulder. It falls to the ground, flopping uselessly, useless nerves still firing.

The zombie shrieks in anger. I grit my teeth, and holding zack by the shirt collar, sink my blade deep into her skull. She goes limp, and flops on top of me. My skin crawls. Her body is cold, and I can feel blood and brain matter ooze onto me.

The zombie on my right rips the dead woman off of me, and tries to grab me. I roll backwards and spring to my feet, my hand still tightly clutched around my tomahawk.

The last two zombies stare at me, studying me, judging me.

They're less than six feet away now.

The three of us look at each other.

_What are you thinking? What’s going through that mind of yours?_

The though occurs that maybe these zombies aren’t unlike me. They’re just scared, and alone, and looking for a way to survive. Maybe it’s like in “I Am Legend.” The zombies have adapted to a new form of society.

_Am I… am I the “bad guy?”_

The zombie on the right screams, and charges.

_Who gives a shit?!_

He swings at me, but I duck just in time for his massive fist to cleave through the space where my head should have been. I swing my tomahawk low, and plant it in his rib cage. The zombie howls in anger, but only gasps when I pull the blade out, and the tattered remains of his lungs along with it.

I kick his corpse aside, leaving him to choke and die on his own. His partner, the last remaining zombie (In the store… that I know of) is already on top of me. I prepare to take his head off with a clean strike to the neck, but his balled fist slams into my stomach.

The wind is propelled out of my lungs with hurricane force. I clutch my stomach, my intestines knotting in pain. My right arms drops limply to my side, and the zombie closes in.

His first swipe knocks my head to the side, his fist leaving bloody marks across my cheek. His next is against my chest. I feel like my sternum cracks as pain shoots through my body. I try to raise my tomahawk, but the zombie has other plans. He grabs my arm with both hands, and bites down.

I scream in terror.

_I’m gonna be a zombie! I’M GOING TO DIE!_

I ball my left hand into a fist, and grit my teeth.

_Fuck that!_

I put my whole body behind the punch, and slam my fist into the zombie’s skull. My knuckles crack, and I can feel bone fracture, but I don’t care. This bastard just killed me, and doesn’t even have the good grace to make it a quick job.

I punch, again, and again, and again! His jaws are still wrapped around my arm when I pull one of the M14 magazines out of its pouch, and slam the pointed end at the back of his skull.

Blood oozes out of the fracture, and a wicked grin sprouts on my face. I strike harder now, and widen the opening. Skull plates _crack_ and blood wells freely. I can see grey matter now.

The zombie releases my arm, and steps back, horrified.

The tomahawk is still in my hands. With one final scream, I bring it up, and over my shoulder. The zombie shrieks, and I bring the blade down in one tremendous strike.

The cold, blood soaked steel cleaves through the top of his skull, through his brain, through his face, through his neck, through his collarbone, and stops, just above his ribcage.  Blood flows like a river, running down the handle of the tomahawk, and onto my hand.  It runs in rivulets down the length of my arm, and seeps into my clothing.  It's warm, and sticky.

I let go of the tomahawk, and let the zombie fold onto the ground, blade and all.

 

Then I drop to my knees, and wait.

 

There are no more footfalls. No more howls. No more zombies.

I collect my tomahawk, .45, and M14 in silence. I fill my duffel bag, slower this time, making sure to arrange every bottle so I can fit as much water as possible.  
Then I walk outside, the bag cutting into my shoulder. The night air is cool. I stop outside the Walgreens, and savor the darkness. With my eyes closed, it almost feels like San Francisco.

I drive home, careful to keep the speed low.

Slowly, tears well at my eyes. I want to gag. The smell of gore is so strong. There’s no fighting it. I’m covered in blood from head to toe. It’s soaked into my hair, my clothes, even the grip of my tomahawk. I can feel it oozing between my fingers.

And my arm, where the zombie bit. I can feel that too. But there’s a numbness to my mind. Death would be so sweet right now. I fantasize about putting the .45 to my temple, and squeezing the trigger. Nothing would be left. The hollow point round would destroy everything in an instant.

It would all be over.

I cry all the way home, up the ladder, and back to my apartment.

I rip my jacket off and stalk into my bathroom. There’s an electric lantern hanging from a towel peg. I switch it on, throwing horrible shadows across the bathroom, and look at myself in the mirror.

There’s nothing recognizable. Blood cakes my face, and sticks to my hair.

I look at my arm, and begin to cry again.

There’s nothing, save for a series of perfect bruises, the flesh purple and tender. I run a finger over the mark, disbelieving. Then I start to laugh. It’s a high pitched, screeching noise that’s loud enough to tear paint off the tiles.

_You cheated death, Jane. Go on. Laugh it up. You earned it._

I laugh for several minutes, before growing exhausted and looking back in the mirror. With a shrug of my shoulders, I begin to strip, until completely naked. I soak a washcloth with soap and rainwater, then run it all over my body.

Blood washes into the drain. I pour cups of cold water over my head, shivering each time. But I’m getting clean, washing the impurities from my soul

Finally finished, I walk to my room, the lamp held high.

I dress into my pajamas; a big shirt with the Berkley emblem, and a pair of overused granny panties.

I’m out by the time my head hits the pillow.

Not a bad way to spend the night.


End file.
